The Bolshevik Bunker
by DieBratwurste
Summary: Draco Malfoy is thoroughly, shamefully, and inescapably in hock. His only hope is Hermione Granger, CPA, and her sure-fire plan for the ultimate heist. The only problem? It's horrendously illegal.
1. Ay, There's the Rub!

Title: The Bolshevik Bunker (1/?)

Author name: Die Bratwurste

Author e-mail: DieBratwurste@yahoo.com

Category: Humor/Action/Adventure

Keywords: Draco Hermione Post-Hogwarts Heist Casino

Rating: PG13

Spoilers: All books

Summary: Draco Malfoy is thoroughly, shamefully, and inescapably in hock. His only hope is Hermione Granger, CPA, and her sure-fire plan for the ultimate heist. The only problem? It's horrendously illegal. Supporting cast includes Gilderoy Lockhart, Birgit De Nijs, Eastern Siberian gnomes, some dancing Bolsheviks, and a few plastic gophers. 

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This was inspired by the Producers, which we also do not own. _Ay, There's the Rub_ is from Shakespeare's Hamlet… it's not ours. 

The Bolshevik Bunker 1:

Ay, There's the Rub!

Desperate times call for desperate measures so as Birgit, part time secretary and full time whore, sang out: "Sie has a visitor!"; Draco Malfoy glanced at his Audubon Society Singing Bird Clock ("A Different Songbird Every Hour!"), noted the time (five minutes to noon), and realized, with a sickening lurch, that he may have to get out of bed. Considering that he had a wallet containing nothing but dust mites, he knew that a few small sacrifices had to be made. 

Scowling, Draco rolled over. "Does this visitor have an appointment?"

"Sie says sie does."

"Shit!" He shot out of his chair and across the kitchen, terrified that it might be yet another creditor. It was entirely too early in the morning to schmooze them out of confiscating the little property he had left. Birgit, parading around in nothing but red, black, and yellow colored panties, would not help matters much. "Get in the coat closet! _Now!"_ He grabbed her arm so hard she squealed and forced her in with the moth-eaten cloaks.

"Herr Malfoy, Sie must be--"

Draco was not about to take orders from a whore. "Shut up, Birgit! _Keep quiet_ in there!" He slammed the closet door closed and ran back into the kitchen, tossing the dirty dishes into the cabinet beneath the sink. He grabbed a lacy cravat from his bedroom and stuffed it down the front of his moldy burgundy bed-robe. He flopped down on the couch in a very _Titanic_, Kate Winslet pose and said in his deepest, manliest, sexiest voice, "Come in, darling."

He heard the sound of the door opening.

"What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?"

Hermione Granger, CPA, stood just inside the doorway, hands on her hips, staring at him over her horn-rimmed glasses with that 'Eww, it's a flea-ridden ferret' look of hers. "I don't even want to know."

"What are you doing here?" Draco snapped, yanking off the lacy cravat and stuffing it between the seat cushions.

"I'm from Gringotts," Hermione said, in a tone that sounded as if she may as well have been sent by God himself.

"You work for Gringotts?"

"No, I'm an undercover secret agent. Yes, Malfoy, I work for Gringotts."

"Erm," he said, "I guess they sent you to help me figure out my bank account."

"'Erm' is right," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I had a bit of trouble finding this…" she trailed off as took in the chintzy furniture, the bedraggled velvet curtains and the pet hermit crabs in the glass aquarium, "dwelling," she continued, taking a large breath, "since Gringotts listed your address as Malfoy Manor in Pittiford-on-the-Rocks, which this obviously is not. In fact, I had to get this address from the gnomes."

"Ah, the gnomes. They took control of the Manor temporarily, a small matter of some unpaid debts." He shrugged, as if having one's family Manor overrun by 600 angry Eastern Siberian gnomes was old news.

"Ah," Hermione said, "I see doing your books will be loads of fun." 

"That's what they're here for," he said, oblivious to her sarcastic manner.

Hermione scowled and walked across the room. She picked up the only book in the entire flat, which was sitting the mantelpiece, a piece of plywood supported by two man-sized plastic gophers. "I'm making a huge leap here," Hermione quipped, "but I'm guessing that these are your accounts."

"Oh, yes," said Draco, still slightly taken aback by the fact Hermione Granger, _the_ Hermione Granger, was under his roof and insulting his intelligence. But instead of expressing his disbelief, he said, "Have a seat," gesturing towards the couch.

Hermione looked at the sofa, which might have been orange at one point in time but was now a sad shade of puke brown. Sniffling distastefully, she replied, "I'll take the table instead, thanks." Without further ado, she slid into the plastic chair behind the rickety round table and flipped open his accounts, at the same time trying to ignore his presence.

"You know, Granger, this--" he made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the whole flat— "is not a Typical Malfoy Dwelling."

"Really?" Hermione's voice was dripping with sarcasm as she scribbled in the margins of Draco's book of accounts. "I had no idea."

Draco was so caught up in his own sorrowful soliloquy that he failed to notice her less-than-rapt attention. "Yes, Granger, you may find it hard to believe, seeing me now, in this"—he made another sweeping gesture, this time accentuating his moldy burgundy bed-robe—"deplorable state, but I, yes I, Draco Malfoy--"

Hermione gave an overly audible sigh of annoyance as she buried her nose in Draco's accounts.

"I used to be the King," Draco finished, complete with a dramatic vocal flourish.

This was entirely too much for Hermione to stomach. "King of what?" she scoffed, reading glasses slipping down her nose as she abruptly jerked her head out of the accounts.

Yet again, Draco failed to recognize her scorn, "The King—the King of Diagon Alley—Wizarding England, I was on top of the world--"

"Maybe my memory is lacking," Hermione quipped, crossing her arms across her besweatered chest, "but I fail to remember you being the ruler of anything."

"It's a figure of speech, Granger," Draco waved her off. "You should learn not to take things so literally." And without further ado he dove full force into his tale of woe. "I used to be the King!"

"We know," Hermione muttered under her breath.

At that moment, a crashing sound emanated from the direction of the coat closet, shortly followed by a high-pitched shriek, and Birgit tumbled out onto the brown living room carpet, looking sheepish. She clutched a very large half-eaten bratwurst in her left hand, which she had, amazingly, found in the coat closet.

"Not that again," Draco groaned. He wouldn't be surprised if she had hidden the sausage there herself.

Getting up from her seat, Hermione inched furtively towards the door. The sight of a busty woman sans brassiere holding a bratwurst was, understandably, more than a little disconcerting to her. 

"No, no, sit down," Draco pulled her back to the chair. She glowered at him but sank into her seat.

"You," he pointed at Birgit, "go to the bedroom. I'll come get you later."

She scuttled away obediently while Hermione stared. "Who was that?"

"Oh, an old friend of the family. She worked for my father."

"What does she do now?"

"She does the same thing for me that she did for him."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Really."

"Yes," Draco began, before seeing the expression on her face and catching her meaning. "Ugh, no, not that!" he exclaimed. "She is…a secretary."

"Ahh, I see." Hermione didn't look convinced, but she returned to the accounts.

After watching her work for about a minute, scribbling with her right hand and making wand movements with her left, the bottom fell out of Draco's attention span and he went to the bedroom to change out of his bathrobe. Birgit sat on the bed, looking very guilty.

Draco gave her an annoyed look and snatched the bratwurst she had been hiding behind her back. She squeaked as he grabbed it, and pouted on the bed. 

"What _is_ it with you and bratwurst?" he wondered.

"My family _invented_ bratwurst, I'll have you know," Birgit said proudly.

Draco scowled. "Your family isn't even from Germany."

"Yes we are!"

"You're Dutch."

She shrugged. "Close enough."

He rolled his eyes.

"We also invented sauerkraut," she persisted blithely.

"I give up."

Draco got dressed in the bathroom, and emerged wearing a gray lambswool sweater with holes under the arms and a pair of khakis. After dumping the robe on the floor of the bedroom closet and slipping on his brown loafers, he reemerged into the living room.

Hermione sat, arms folded and legs crossed, glaring at the now-closed book of accounts.

"Is there a problem?"

"No."

"Then why are you still sitting there?"

She raised her eyes slowly, giving him the same scowl she had previous reserved for his accounts. "Yes, there's a problem, and it's bigger than your ego, which is saying quite a bit."

"There's no need to get personal, four-eyes," he said coolly. "What's the problem?"

"You're over a million Galleons in debt."

He blinked. "A million?"

"A million," she assured him. "And, quite frankly, Malfoy, I don't see any way out of your situation, other than to declare bankruptcy."

"Malfoys don't declare bankruptcy," he informed her.

"Gee, Malfoy, in that case, I'd say your only option is to sit around and sip Mai Tais with your large plastic gophers and wait for the Gringotts goblins to haul you _and_ your artificial rodents off to _debtor's prison_!" She paused. "You know, Malfoy," Hermione said sardonically, plucking her horn-rimmed glasses off of the bridge of her nose and turning her scathing gaze upon Draco, "You lost this money so quickly you should have filed an insurance claim. It's essentially a crime."

Instead of the offended expression Hermione was expecting, and arguably, hoping for, Draco's face broke into an enormous grin, and Hermione could have sworn that she saw the proverbial light bulb blaze up behind his head. "A claim!" Hermione braced herself for the worst. 

"A claim?" Hermione echoed timorously. 

"Yes, yes, a claim, that's what I said," Draco waved her off, so wrapped up in his miraculous epiphany that he was utterly oblivious to the outside world. "Don't you see, Granger, brilliant Granger—beautiful Granger! You've hit upon it, you genius, you!"

"Hit upon what?" Despite the compliments, Hermione couldn't help feeling anything but mildly alarmed. 

  
"The way to save my ass!" Draco was ecstatic at this moment, his face filled with a light so heavenly that Hermione could almost hear Gabriel's trumpet, announcing the epiphany of the century.

"Oh wonderful…" Hermione said sarcastically, sounding rather like Christmas had been cancelled. 

"It's so simple!" Draco exclaimed, looking like a small child on his birthday, "All we have to do is set up a business—"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"Well, of course," Draco said, eyeing her as if she was missing half a brain. "You've seen my books, I'm hopeless at anything with regards to business. You could do all that for me." 

"Ah," Hermione said, biting her tongue as her fist clenched white-knuckled around the side of her horn-rimmed glasses. "So what would you do in this… operation, Malfoy?"

"Me?" Draco blinked at her, amazed that she didn't automatically know, "Public Relations of course. I can sell a product, Granger," he said, more than a small measure of patronizing pride in his tone. 

"You just couldn't make it," Hermione muttered. 

Draco raised an eyebrow, and remarked coolly. "You can make as many products you want, Granger, but if there's no one to sell them…" he trailed off, shrugging tragically. 

"I _could_ sell a product if I wanted to," Hermione said, a little sore at Draco's condescending attitude. 

"But you're not exactly Wheaties material," Draco said, looking at her sadly. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hermione snapped, eyebrows constricting into a W of anger. 

"Well, no one is ever going to see your face on the front of a cereal box, Granger," Draco said, shrugging as if it couldn't be helped. 

Hermione was utterly incensed. "Are you saying that there is something wrong with my face?" 

"No," Draco said, his smirk utterly negating his answer's veracity. "You have a very… nice face. Just not that nice." 

Hermione went red. "And you must think that you look much better." 

"Well," Draco said without one single bit of ado, "yes. But as I was saying before you dragged off on irrelevant tangent—"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this!" Hermione leapt to her feet, slamming Draco's account book shut with a terrific clump. "You are the most selfish, chauvinistic, undeserving…" she floundered, searching for the appropriate word, "_brat_ that I have ever met and I would rather _die_ before I involve myself in any one of your schemes, harebrained or otherwise. I did not drag you down an irrelevant tangent, your entire existence is one irrelevant self-serving tangent and when you die, hopefully soon, no one, not one single person, will mourn your passing—in fact there will be celebrations—huge celebrations with dancing in the streets and free cake and government sponsored brass bands and I will laugh, laugh as I never have in my entire life, because you'll be dead! Ha! Ha! Ha!" She took a small pause in order to regain her breath, "So there!"

"Are you finished?" Draco said simply, as Hermione paused. She was nearly purple from screaming. 

"Quite," Hermione affirmed, sliding into her chair and demurely folding her hands in front of her. "Carry on then." 

"Alright," Draco said, and completely ignoring Hermione's momentary outburst, he pressed fearlessly onward. "This is the plan: We set up a business, and after a few weeks rob it bare, and then file the insurance claim! That way, would we not only have the stolen money, but several times that in insurance payments. Then, before the police put two and two together we can take our," he smirked cheekily, "several billion galleons and hightail off to Mexico, out the reach of the law, and into a life of luxury beyond our wildest imaginings!" 

"Malfoy…" Hermione said, speaking slowly as if she was addressing a very small child. "There's a small problem with your brilliant plan." 

"Well there are problems with any plan," Draco said, shrugging her off, "Admittedly, we have to get the capital to set up a business from somewhere, but that shouldn't be too hard…"

"That wasn't what I meant," Hermione said, glaring at Draco. 

"It's not too hard to get insurance coverage," Draco said, "I don't see why that would worry you—"

"It's not," Hermione cut him off. 

"Then what is it, Granger?" Draco snapped, utterly exasperated with her holier-than-thou attitude. 

"It's _illegal_, Malfoy," Hermione replied, her voice dripping with palpable scorn. "You know illegal… as in against the law? Then again," she added sarcastically, "such irrelevant things like laws probably don't apply to Malfoys. They're only reserved for us poor mortals." 

"Laws, Granger," Draco said simply, "are made to be broken."

"I can't even see how you can even begin to hope to get away with this," Hermione said, shaking her head at Draco's idiocy. "Firstly, you have to set up your business, and supposing, just supposing that you get a company on its feet, which is a long shot considering your past history," she gestured disdainfully at his books, "You have to have enough working capital inside the firm itself that you can steal it… and then somehow file a claim on the stolen money without tipping off the law. And then, to top it all off, I'm sure they wouldn't get suspicious at all when you randomly run off to Mexico with an extra four million Galleons in your back pocket." 

"It's a springboard, Granger," Draco explained scornfully, making a diving motion with his arms. "It's open to improvement." 

"Here is some improvement… how about earning the money honestly, Malfoy? One would think you've never had a moral scruple in your entire life," Hermione glanced at Draco. "Then again, you probably haven't."

"Morality," Draco said broadly, "is just a synonym for fear." 

"I'm not scared!" Hermione protested, glowering at him. "I just don't want to go to jail!" 

"See, you are afraid," Draco said, smirking at her. 

"I am not!" 

"You are too," Draco cut her retort off with one wave of his hand. "Besides, you're not going to jail, you're going to Mexico." 

"No," Hermione said flatly, getting to her feet. 

"No what?" Draco blinked at her, slightly taken aback. 

"No, I am not going to jail," Hermione said, gracing him with an expression chipped of icy scorn. "Nor am I going to Mexico. I am going back to work. Mr. Malfoy, you have wasted enough of my precious time. Goodbye." 

"What?" Draco was flabbergasted.

"And if any of your businesses go under," Hermione shot over shoulder, "I'll be sure to inform the proper authorities." 

"I'll give you three percent of the profits!" Draco said, following her towards his door, trying to cut her escape short. 

"Three percent is peanuts," Hermione scoffed. 

"Five percent," Draco relinquished. 

"At least seventy percent," Hermione said, shaking her head. 

"Seventy percent?" Draco exploded, shaking his head with fury. "What makes you think you'd deserve seventy percent of the profits?"

"I'd actually be working my ass off while all you'd be doing is posing for Wheaties boxes, that's what!" Hermione quipped.

"You can't sell a product without—"

"Shut it," Hermione cut him off, reaching for the doorknob. 

Seeing that his last chance was rapidly escaping Draco decided that he had to give a little ground of risk loosing the entire war. A Pyrric victory was always better than utter defeat. "Alright! You can have twenty percent!" 

"Sixty-seven," Hermione shot back crossing her arms. 

"Twenty-two." 

"Sixty-six." 

"Twenty-three." 

"Sixty-five."

"Twenty-three point five." 

"Sixty—ergh!" Hermione cut herself off, glowering at Draco, "I don't see why I'm even bothering to argue with you, Malfoy. "The answer is no, whether you offer me two percent or ninety-nine point nine nine!"

Draco was personally offended. "Why won't you even negotiate? I hope you know I'm giving you a once in a lifetime opportunity here, Granger."

"Because it's just _wrong_, Malfoy! Because—oh, forget it, I'm not even going to try to explain it to you. You wouldn't get it. I'm leaving."

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Draco rolled his eyes and watched the door, counting to ten under his breath. Right on cue, Hermione opened the door again and stepped into the flat.

"Fine. Convince me."


	2. Uphill Both Ways

**Title: **The Bolshevik Bunker (2/?) 

**Author name:** Die Bratwurste

**Author e-mail:** DieBratwurste@yahoo.com

**Category:** Humor/Action/Adventure

**Keywords:** Draco Hermione Post-Hogwarts Heist Casino

**Rating:** PG13

**Spoilers:** All books

**Summary:** Draco Malfoy is thoroughly, shamefully, and inescapably in hock. His only hope is Hermione Granger, CPA, and her surefire plan for the ultimate heist. The only problem? It's horrendously illegal. Supporting cast includes Gilderoy Lockhart, Birgit De Nijs, Eastern Siberian gnomes, some dancing Bolsheviks, and a few plastic gophers. 

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This was inspired by the Producers, which we also do not own. One line (the "there are no words") is from _Miss Congeniality_, which we are making no claims upon, nor do we own _Wuthering Heights_ or Heathcliff.  

**The Bolshevik Bunker**

Chapter 2:

_Uphill Both Ways_

"I have no pity; I have no pity!  The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails!  It is a moral teething!"

—Heathcliff, _Wuthering__Heights___

**Act One:**

_The __Gouda__ Line_

"I thought you were going to convince me over lunch, Malfoy," Hermione snipped, her growing hunger and her innate dislike of Draco combining to make her even more irritable than usual.  

"I am."  

"At a rest home?"  

Hermione glanced upwards, a dubious look on her face.  Malfoy had lead her to the most dingy, derelict Victorian mansion she had ever seen.  The sky was perfectly clear up and down the street, but inexplicably, a lone black cloud hung over the building, complete with cursory streak lightning.  She realized she shouldn't be surprised.  Malfoy would hang out at a place that brought a whole new meaning to "isolated thunderstorms".   A heavy black marble sign hung over the enormous entrance proclaiming to all the world that this was, indeed, the one and only TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE MEMORIAL HOME FOR THE ELDERLY.  After looking up at the sign, Hermione found the random storm cloud understandable, and probably even expectable.  

"My father donated the money," Draco explained.  "He insisted upon the name."  

Before Hermione could reply there was a loud screeching of tires as a long black hearse dropped out of the sky and squashing a random small child whose existence is completely irrelevant to this fanfiction at large—but cut us some slack, people, we have to pump in the angst somehow.  We couldn't resist.  

Emblazoned upon the side of the flying hearse in flashing blue-gray letters were the words:

**_Bubba's Flying Funeral Parlor_**

_From the freezer to the oven to the table…___

_…One stop shopping for all your dead-people needs!_

The door to the hearse clicked open as two wizards in skintight black jumpsuits with matching aviator sunglasses stepped out of the car walking up towards the TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE MEMORIAL HOME FOR THE ELDERLY with an air of such authority Draco and Hermione leapt instinctively out of their path to avoid being metaphorically and, for all intensive purposes, literally steamrollered.  They fell, albeit accidentally, into the convenient rhododendron bushes which, Hermione soon discovered much to her dismay, bit.  

"Another of my father's demands," Draco furnished helpfully as he dodged a particularly ravenous rhododendron blossom.  "He thought it would be a nice touch."  

"Remind me," Hermione said through clenched teeth, "never to hire your father to do my landscaping."  

"Why not?" Draco looked a tad bit offended, although it might have been due to the large rhododendron sinking its teeth into his left metatarsal.  "He charges very reasonable rates, for a Malfoy that is."  

"Considering the current state of your assets, Malfoy," Hermione snapped, catching a rhododendron in her fist as it moved forward to nip at her fingers, "any rates would be reasonable.  Hell, at this point, sitting on the street with a little tin cup and a sign saying: "Too much Armani, too little cash," would be considered a high paying job."

"I wear Chanel," Draco said through clenched teeth.

Before Hermione had a chance to make the comment Draco's response was just crying for, the wizards from the flying hearse reached the front stoop of the TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE MEMORIAL HOME FOR THE ELDERLY, the door flying immediately open to greet them.  An elephant of a woman with stringy grey hair, hands the size of pie plates, and a nose that made Professor Snape's look positively puny stepped out onto the landing, blinking in the sunlight.  Slung over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes was a little wisp of a woman who brought new meaning to the words "wizened with age".  

"Alright, Grandma," Elephant-Woman said, throwing the old lady a compete one hundred and eighty degrees so that the fogey's feet met the cement of the stoop, "time for your trip."  

"Oooh," the little old lady said in an appropriately little-old-ladyish voice, "a trip?"  Her eyes, as big as saucers, were filled with an almost childish wonder.  "A trip to where?"  

"A barbeque," Elephant-Woman supplied.  

"Oooh," the woman blinked happily; a process, due to her severely arthritic eyelids, that took the better part of a minute, "I do love barbeque!  What are we barbequing?"  

"Let's just say," Elephant-Woman grinned nastily, "you're the guest of honor, Grandma."  

The two flying funeral home wizards supplemented Elephant-Woman's pronouncement.  "Mwahahahahaha!"

"Oooh." The little old lady clucked her tongue, which took nearly as long as blinking.  "You should take some cough syrup for that, dears; it sounds awfully croupy."  

"C'mon Grandma, let's go," one of the wizards said as the other grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shoved her towards the hearse.  

"Oooh," she waxed ecstatic, "is that a Rolls Royce?"   

The men didn't deign to reply, although Hermione, as horrified by the situation as she was, was amused to notice one of them scratching at his forehead surreptitiously.  Shaking their heads, they pushed her through the open door, slamming it behind them.  

"Oooh," wafted from the inside of the car, "is that a skewer?"  

There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and the unmistakable stench of freshly cooked barbeque.  

There was a deathly silence.  Without further ado, Bubba's Flying Funeral Home shot off into the sky leaving naught but a dry spot on the ground where it had been, which was quickly reclaimed by the isolated thunderstorm.  

"Draco Malfoy, what are you doing in my biting rhododendrons?" Elephant-Woman asked curiously, staring at them.

"I wish I could explain," Hermione said, eyeing her now-ripped business suit, "but there aren't words."

"Yes," Draco said, the paradigm of modesty, "who needs words when you have me?"  He flashed her his deepest, manliest, sexiest, and, in Hermione's opinion, most nauseating, smile.

"Oh, Draco, you've always made me go weak in the knees!"  Hermione glanced down at the vague area of the woman's legs (tree trunks?) where she would have expected to find the knees, but was mildly alarmed to see nothing but rippling folds of gray skin not dissimilar to water.  Elephant-Woman threw her arms around him and, with a squelching noise, his entire body disappeared amidst her more than ample folds.  

Freeing himself from Elephant-Woman's smothering clutches with a sound that sounded remarkably like a suction cup being removed from glass, Draco smiled winningly, showing off every last one of his straight, white, perfect Malfoy teeth, the products, Hermione was sure, of many years of careful inbreeding.

"Oh, Granger, this is Mrs. Horticulture Goyle."

"Related to…" Hermione searched for Goyle's first name but, seeing as she had never been able to tell Crabbe and Goyle apart from Hogwarts's numerous gargoyles, let alone each other, it evaded her.

Mrs. Horticulture Goyle opened her mouth to supply the name, but a blank look crossed her face as she muttered, "What is the little bugger called, anyhow?"

"Gregory," Draco supplied.

In a motion that never appears outside of fanfiction, Mrs. Horticulture Goyle slapped herself on the forehead, muttering, "Gregory, Gregory, that's my son's name."  She ceased whispering and smiled enthusiastically.  "Would you care to join me for a spot of tea?"

Hermione balked, recalling that Mrs. Horticulture Goyle's last mention of food had resulted in the unfortunate barbequing of a little old lady, but Draco seemed to have no such reservations, shoving her forward with an ardor nearly equal to Mrs. Horticulture Goyle's and announced, "Of course!  We would love to join you for tea!  Will there be crumpets as well?"

"Certainly."

"And scones?"

"As always!"

"And tarts?" Draco asked with a mischievous grin and eyes that suggested things Hermione would rather not think about.

"Oh, Draco, you charmer," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle giggled, sounding like a pregnant hippopotamus.  "Come along, darling."  She tried to pull Draco through the door walking next to her, but this proved impossible as her massive girth filled the entire doorframe.  In the interests of preventing himself from becoming a pancake, Draco fell behind, whispering triumphantly to Hermione, "I told you we'd get lunch out of this!  You just have to poke around in the right places."

Hermione blanched.  "I really hope you didn't mean that literally."

**_INTERMISSION _**

(take a potty break now, folks)

**ACT TWO:**

_Floating Amidst the Cotangents_

"Well," said Mrs. Horticulture Goyle, passing Draco the bread plate (he was well into his fifth scone), "what brings you two to my humble home for the elderly?  We have an open door policy, but I'd say you two are a little young, even by our standards."

Hermione held up a hand.  "No no, neither of us actually wants to live here."

Draco said something that sounded suspiciously like, "Now that I think about it…" but his mouth was full of scone so it was hard to tell for sure.

"Actually," said Hermione, with a venomous glance in Draco's direction, "Malfoy doesn't have enough money for lunch.  He got it into his head that he had to take advantage of his friendship with your son in a last ditch effort to get—"

"—advice on a business proposition!" Draco burst in as he swallowed the last crumbs of his scone, proceeding to lick his fingers as he kicked Hermione under the table, managing, as only a Malfoy could, to look sexy while multitasking.

"No money for lunch?"  Mrs. Horticulture Goyle looked horrified.  "Why didn't you just beat up a passing child and steal his money?  That's what I taught—" she paused, losing her train of thought mid-sentence, "what's his name, my son."

"Gregory?" Draco provided, for the second time in five minutes.

"Yes," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle snapped her fingers.  "Yes, I taught him to always beat up small children when he's low on dough.  It's a wonderful way to pick up an extra bit of pocket change."

Hermione was entirely too mortified to come up with a proper response.  If this was a Death Eater's wife, she'd hate to see the real thing.

"I'll keep that in mind," Draco said.  Hermione hoped he wasn't serious, though you never could tell with Malfoy.  "As invaluable as your suggestion is—" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle tittered, "I am looking to rake in much, much more than mere pocket change."

"Oooh," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle cooed, sounding remarkably like the little old lady.  "Prithee, do tell, do tell."

"I need money.  A LOT of money."

"Yes, we've established that," Hermione muttered under her breath.

"After all," Draco said, "Chanel's new fall wardrobe comes out in two weeks and right now I have enough to buy diddlysquat."  

"I'm telling you, those little kids…" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle said, "you'd be surprised how much allowance their parents give them nowadays.  When I was a child they didn't have allowance, they didn't even have money back then.  We had to walk six miles to Hogwarts in the snow—uphill both ways!"  

"But why go for the little fish when you can catch the big kahuna?" Draco leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin on his face.  As Mrs. Horticulture Goyle looked somewhat confused he added, "Metaphorically speaking."  

"Oh," she said, "I was wondering what fishing had to do with it."  Draco smiled as if this was a perfectly understandable mistake.  

Hermione felt that the stupidity quotient was well out of the healthy range for someone of her mental capacity.  However, as she had discovered with Harry and Ron her first year at Hogwarts, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, so she reached over and grabbed one of Malfoy's half-finished tea scones, taking a huge bite and feeling her IQ drop about 40 points.  

"What I'm trying to say," Draco said, "and I'll leave fish out of it," he smiled at Mrs. Horticulture Goyle, "is:  why rob the kids when you can go for their parents?"

"Because their parents can beat you up?" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle volunteered.

"Welcome to the obvious club," Hermione muttered under her breath.  Even being out 40 IQ points she was leading Draco and Mrs. Horticulture Goyle, combined, by about 100 more.  She felt it was high time she took another bite of scone.

"Not," Draco said, looking as if he was Moses on the mount, "if the parents don't know you're robbing them blind."  

"Oooh," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle added helpfully.  

"And how, may I ask," Hermione was unable to keep the incredulity out of her voice, "are you going to do that?"  

Draco put forth a question.  "Can you think of anyplace where people lose a lot of money and feel very happy about it?" 

"Hell?" Hermione said, while Mrs. Horticulture Goyle suggested simultaneously:  

"Church?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a casino, but, come to think of it, I've always wanted to be a priest—"

"Casino it is!" Hermione cut in rapidly, not even wanting to consider Malfoy in a frock.

"But a casino needs a theme!" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle squealed, clapping her meaty hands together.  "Oh, what fun!  How about Germany?  You can have showgirls in lederhosen and sell bratwurst magnets!"

"No," Draco informed her, "there will be no bratwurst in my casino, magnetic or otherwise."

"Germany just doesn't seem right," Hermione said.

"What would you suggest, Granger, a library?" Draco snipped.  "We can have a can-can line of witches dressed as nineteenth-century British novels."  

"I am feeling mildly offended," Hermione said, sounding it too.

"I'll be Heathcliff!" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle put in, entirely too excited.  "I pray one prayer until my tongue stiffens:  Cathy!  Come back to me—Cathy!"  

Draco's eyes glazed over, making him look alarmingly like a jelly doughnut.  For her part, Hermione felt mildly alarmed.  "Let's have a tropical theme," she said quickly before Mrs. Horticulture Goyle could leap up and begin banging her head against a convenient tree.  "We can have tiki luaus."  

"It's been done before," Draco waved his hand dismissively.  "We need something original, something that no one's ever seen in a casino."

"A Paris theme, complete with satin slot machines, a model Moulin Rouge, and dancing baguettes," Hermione said, somewhat sincere.

"Too trendy," Draco vetoed.  

"Classic Hollywood, then.  We could have periodic film screenings, showgirls dressed as the letters of HOLLYWOOD, and a wall of Marilyn Monroe glamour shots."

"Too American."

"Okay, then," Hermione was beginning to get annoyed, and thus even more sarcastic than usual.  "How about an Afghani casino?  Showgirls covered from head to toe in swathes of white gauze.  Admittedly it won't be too popular with the men, but c'est la vie."

"Too political."

"Sherwood Forest.  Robin Hood and his Merry Men…In Tights."

"Too Mel Brooks."

"How about Corporate America?  Dancing businessmen swinging Armani briefcases singing about the joys of free enterprise.  We can write off our bad books as part of the theme."

"Too capitalist."

"All right, Malfoy," she snapped, "if you think that's too capitalist let's do a 180.  Communist Russia.  Dancing KGB agents led by Josef Stalin in an Elvis Presley jumpsuit.  We can even get away with not giving anything out of the slot machines by telling the guests that in Communism, everyone shares, so the money is already yours in spirit."

Fully expecting another veto, Hermione was understandably horrified by Draco's wide-grin, shining so brightly she could almost hear the choir of fat baby cherubs in the background.  "That's it!  Shit!  You, Granger, may not be Wheaties material, but are a genius."

"You can't have a communist casino," Hermione said, holding her head in her hands.  "It's just not done!"  She felt as if she was trying to lecture a very small, excruciatingly ornery child who understood nothing but Basque.  "It goes against everything communism stands for; it just doesn't make any sense!"

"Exactly!" Draco's grin continued for miles.  "We'll end up offending every Russian under the sun!"

"And that's supposed to be a good thing?" 

"You never know.  Maybe they'll get so angry they'll chuck their vodka at us."

"You should keep some pillows around then," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle added, up to her usual levels of insight.

"Malfoy," Hermione began, utterly exasperated, "a casino is supposed to be a bright place, alive, flashy, with lots of neon light—I can't think of anything less cheerful than Soviet Russia."

"You got that definition of a casino from the dictionary, didn't you, Granger?"

"Shut it."

Draco shrugged.  "There's nothing saying that we can't have a bright, flashy, neon Soviet Casino."

Hermione crossed her arms.  "Actually there is something that says we can't."

"What?"

"Me."

"Oh," Draco waved her off, "that's alright then.  I thought you meant something that we had to listen to."

Hermione folded her hands and gazed upwards at the heavens.  "What did I ever do to deserve this?"

"Maybe you were Josef Stalin in a past life," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle suggested, the worst part about her comment being that it was, in fact, sincere.

"Shut up," Hermione said, throwing aside her final shred of politeness.  "Damn Slytherins."

Mrs. Horticulture Goyle deflated, but remained large enough to occupy approximately one-third of the entire room.

"Granger, open your eyes," Draco said, leaning forward.  "The Soviet Casino is Perfect Absolute Genius," the way he said the last three words implying all-caps.  "I mean, the business is supposed to fail eventually when we rob it blind, so we may as well have some fun with it while we're at it."  

"Last time I checked fun did not immediately equate to Soviet Russia."  

"Dancing KGB agents?  A Stalin dressed as Elvis, I mean, come on Granger, if that's not a riot, I don't know what is."  

Hermione pouted.  "I still like the tropical theme."  

"Alright," Draco threw his hands into the air, "I concede."

"Thank you," Hermione said.  "I'm sure people will like tiki luaus a lot better than your idea."

"We'll have tiki _Bolshevik luaus!" Draco proclaimed._

This went against every ounce of propriety Hermione possessed.  "They didn't have tiki luaus in Soviet Russia."  

"How do you know," Draco snapped, sounding about five years old, "were you there?"  

"I told you she was the reincarnation of Josef Stalin," Mrs. Horticulture Goyle added helpfully.

"Even Stalin had to get down on Saturday nights, Granger," Draco said.  "Who's to say he didn't shake his thang Hawaiian style?"  

It was at that moment Hermione realized she was fighting a losing battle.  She felt the sudden urge to scuttle off to the corner, rocking back and forth while whimpering pitifully.  Instead she threw her hands up in the air and moaned, "All right, all right, I give up!  We'll have a tiki Bolshevik casino."

"I knew you'd come around," Draco grinned.

"What will you call it?" Mrs. Horticulture Goyle asked.

"My biggest mistake," Hermione muttered under her breath.  

Draco ignored her.  "The Bolshevik Bunker!"  He sounded entirely too excited.  

Hermione gave a resigned sigh, hating her own cleverness.  "Where you can paint the town red every night."


End file.
